


With A Flair For Insanity

by usuallyfunctioning



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Little Bit of Fluff?, M/M, Psychological Torture, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:24:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallyfunctioning/pseuds/usuallyfunctioning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything was fuzzy. Fuzzy and blurred and dark around the edges. John’s head rang; a deep throbbing blasted at the back of his skull. Where was he? What the hell happened? And then he remembered: Jim Moriarty.<br/>~~~<br/>It should have been clear to Sherlock and John never to underestimate the madman's abilities. Now the two are trapped in Moriarty's grasp, with no escape dawning on the horizon, and Jim will stop at nothing to destroy them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With A Flair For Insanity

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is a torture fic! So don't read if you don't like. Thank you.
> 
> Hey, Everyone! Thanks for reading this fan fiction. I'll be trying to tie in some torture/whump/smut/angst/non-con/little bit of fluff?/all around insanity. 
> 
> Please leave a comment! I'm open to criticism, reviews, general feedback... anything!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Everything was fuzzy. Fuzzy and blurred and dark around the edges. John’s head rang; a deep throbbing blasting at the back of his skull. Where was he? What the hell happened? 

Even through the haze his eyes flitted through his surroundings: dim, bare room. Cement floors and walls, hanging lightbulb. No windows, one steel door, obviously locked. Basement? Probably. Bigger than a house basement, more industrial. Warehouse? Storage building? Yes.. that’s it…

A dam broke in John’s head. Recent memories flooded his mind. Sherlock and John were searching for evidence. Proof. Moriarty wasn’t here. None of his henchmen were here either, Sherlock was convinced. This was Moriarty’s base, if you would, for a spell of time. So Sherlock decided: Let’s go. Any police backup? No. Of course not. Building was dark, empty, old, in the middle of nowhere. Did Mycroft even know about this place? Sherlock and John were walking downstairs and… nothing. John couldn’t remember what happened next. 

He tried to stand, but waves of nausea rolled through his stomach. John sat back down. After a slow, squinting blink, his vision cleared. His ankle was encased in a metal shackle chained to the wall, and his hands bound in rope behind his back. Apart from his head—minor concussion?—he didn’t seem to be hurt. 

John gasped the second he realized it. God, why hadn’t he noticed sooner? Where the hell was Sherlock? 

As if on cue, thudding footsteps echoed from the hallway opposite the door. Two—no, three—sets of threatening footsteps. Just fantastic.

The door swung open, and John winced at the noise. His head. 

“Well if it isn’t our Johnny!” 

John’s eyes snapped open at the sickly sweet Irish voice. Moriarty was clad in a dark suit, of course, and flanked by a burly looking man with a scar down his cheek who held Sherlock’s wrists in his monstrous grasp. 

“Sherlock,” John breathed.

“Oh, John darling, Sherly here has been missing you while you were asleep!” Moriarty cooed.

Sherlock’s face was bloodied from a nosebleed, and plum-coloured bruises were already spreading across his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose. “John, I’m fine,” he assured hurriedly, registering the horrified look on the man’s face. 

“What the bloody hell have you done to him?” John said, voice low and threatening. 

Moriarty simply laughed. “This, Johnny,” A pale hand rose to trail fingertips down Sherlock’s face. Sherlock tensed, but didn’t fight back. “This is only the start,” he whispered. 

John’s hands clenched into fists behind his back. “What-“ He paused for a deep, shaky breath. “Could you possibly mean?”

Moriarty took a step forward, into John’s reach. Purposely, but why? “What I mean, Doctor John Watson, is that this is only the beginning. I’ve got Sherlock in my grasp now, and I have wanted that and only that for so long. He’s mine, and I can do whatever I want with him,” Moriarty hissed. “I do hope you understand.”

“You are insane! This is bloody insane!” John’s eyes flickered over to Sherlock, who was standing stock-still and blank faced. He’d better have a bloody plan…

“You, dear John,” Moriarty continued. “Are lucky enough to come along for the ride.” A manic grin spread across the madman’s face. “I do hope you enjoy it as much as I do.” 

“No,” John growled. “Mycroft will find you. Scotland Yard will find you. If I were you, I’d get out while I still could.”

The laugh again, Moriarty’s chilling laugh that had such capabilities as to send shivers down John’s spine every time. “Oh, John, you just tickle me. I am glad you’ve come along. But really, you suppose I haven’t thought of that, pet? I’ve organized it all perfectly, you see. I’ve distractions lined up, bugs planted, spies even, though those have never been my style. What I’m trying to say is-“ Another step closer to John. “I’ll always be ahead.” 

If it were at all still possible, John’s eyes darkened. No longer blue, but a steady black. Like a thunderstorm over the ocean. “Who do you think you are?” John whispered. 

“Oh, I know your poor little soldier instincts must be driving you mad right now, aren’t they? All tied up and helpless…” Moriarty clicked his tongue, hands clasped behind his back as he circled John. Predatory. “Come to think of it, I could do whatever I wished with you, too. What a nice little plaything you’d make.” A stray hand whispered across John’s shoulder blade. 

“Stop,” Sherlock demanded, deep voice ringing in their cavernous prison. 

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Finally, a reaction! I’ve only been waiting all night, Dear. I don’t fancy waiting, I’ll let you know.” He didn’t quit tracing fingertips across the contours of John’s back.   “I said, stop it. And you know I hate repeating myself, Jim,” Sherlock countered. 

Moriarty’s eyebrows raised in mock innocence. “Stop what?” His hands trailed over John’s shoulders and down his chest, slipping down John’s waist to rest on his hips. “Stop this?” With a swift flick of his wrists, Jim untucked John’s red button-up. 

In a sudden explosion, John spun around and connected his knee solidly with Moriarty’s side. The man gasped, off-balance and stepping backwards from the impact. Too quickly, the look of surprise and shock that had adorned his face transformed into one of pure glee. 

John’s mouth twisted with displeased confusion. Sherlock, brilliant Sherlock, figured it out seconds before Moriarty thought to explain his childlike pleasure. John could tell by just looking at the dread that creased Sherlock’s beaten face.

“Thank you, John Watson,” Moriarty said with startling, wide-eyed sincerity. “You’ve given me the chance to introduce you to the very best part of our little game here.” Sherlock, standing just back, restrained by Moriarty’s ‘sidekick’ winced. 

“You didn’t know, John—“ Sherlock began.

“Shush!” Moriarty cut in. “Don’t spoil it, Sherly. You see, John, whatever you do to me, you can consider it done to Sherlock. We don’t want you being a bad boy, and hurting me was very naughty, don’t you think? Call this a punishment.” Moriarty’s smile looked quite similar to that of a child being presented a Chrristmas gift after boiling in anticipation for weeks. Sickening. Moriarty turned and nodded to the unknown man holding Sherlock in his grasp. 

Sherlock gritted his teeth, preparing himself for what he knew was sure to come, and it did. The henchman’s knee connected with his ribcage with tremendous force. Sherlock stumbled backwards. John shouted a strangled, “No, wait!” 

Sherlock straightened his posture, collecting himself: setting his mouth in a firm line and breathing heavily through his nose. 

“Well! That was enthralling wasn’t it?” murmured Moriarty. “Let’s try that again, sometime, shall we? I’ll very much be looking forward to it, you know me.” Moriarty giggled. 

John’s knuckles were white, and his face contorted in rage, but he didn’t dare hurt Moriarty, not now. 

“I’ll leave you two some alone time for a bit, then,” Moriarty declared, before adding in a stage-whispered voice, “Well, I say alone…” His gaze travelled to a camera mounted on the wall, just above Sherlock’s reach. 

Moriarty was stepping out of the heavy door, followed by the henchman, when he turned back around. Now he sounded threatening. The man was a cesspool of charades and undeniably impressive dramatics. “Fair advice for the two of you— believe it or not I can play fair— don’t try anything funny. Well… that would make everything so much more fun for me, so sod it. Do whatever you’d like.” He smiled like a proud parent at a school play. “I do like when you’re feisty; So much more exciting, breaking you.” He was met with narrowed eyes. Moriaty sighed. “Try not to miss me too much, Sherlock dearest. I’ll be back soon enough.” He blew Sherlock a kiss before finally retreating down the concrete corridor, making sure to lock the door behind him. 

As soon as John heard the unmistakable click, he let out a breath he hadn’t even been aware he was holding in. And Sherlock? The best way John could describe it was that Sherlock deflated. 

“God, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, Christ, I really didn’t—“ 

“I know,” Sherlock interrupted.

“And where the hell did he take you? How long was I out? What just happened, for Christ’s sake? What’s  
going to happen? And Mycroft… is what Moriarty said true?”

Sherlock began pacing, mouth still drawn in a fine line, before a strangled gasp escaped his lips and his hands flew towards his ribs. “John.” Sherlock pleaded, so opposite his normal persona. His jaw muscles were taught, his face even paler than usual. His breaths were sharp. 

John’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, Sherlock… your ribs. How bad are they?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock managed, grimacing. At either the physical pain or the mental stress, John couldn’t be sure. 

“Untie my wrists and I can see for you, alright?” 

Sherlock nodded, still working hard to look composed and put together with perfect posture and a raised chin. John could see through the act as if it were simply a fogged window. Sherlock untied John’s wrists from their rough rope bonds, and John was quick to rub the chaffed skin.

“Okay, then…” he began. “I’ll need you to lie down. I won’t hurt you, I promise,” John added after Sherlock’s shoulders went rigid. God, what did Moriarty do?

“I know you won’t,” Sherlock agreed.

“Good.”

Struggling, but refusing John’s assisting hands, Sherlock laid back against the cool stone floor. 

“I’m going to have to unbutton your shirt now,” John said. His soft doctoring voice made an appearance, it couldn’t be helped. 

“I’m perfectly aware of medical procedure, John,” Sherlock snapped. “And also perfectly capable of unbuttoning my own shirt. If I remember correctly, I was kneed in the stomach, not the shoulder or arm.”

John rolled his eyes, but was secretly relieved that Sherlock’s mind was normal—well, as normal as it ever was. John’s breath hitched when Sherlock slid his navy, silk shirt off his shoulders. But John corrected himself. This is absolutely not the time to lust after Sherlock Holmes.

Anyhow, this strange new attraction was chased out of his mind in an instant when John saw the horrific bruise already darkening Sherlock’s pale torso. John’s only hope was that Moriarty had a matching one this very moment. 

For a second, John just hovered his hands over Sherlock, unsure of what exactly to do or check, before Sherlock barked, “Oh just do something, would you?”

“Fine, fine, alright,” John muttered. “This might hurt a little.”

“…and?” Sherlock prompted.

“And nothing. Just a warning, I guess,” said John, exasperated. He pressed warm fingers gently along Sherlock’s ribs. The detective’s mouth pressed into a firm line, but he didn’t so much as flinch. “Broken,” John declared. “Just the two.”

“Great,” breathed Sherlock.

“There’s not much I can do…” John said, leaning back onto his heels and trying to ignore the press of the metal cuff against his ankle, the cold reminder of their hopeless situation. 

Sherlock hefted himself into a sitting position, hissing through gritted teeth. The shirt went back on, to John’s strange disappointment. A spell of silence passed.

“It’s getting colder in here,” Sherlock announced, the sound of his voice intrusive after minutes—hours?—of silence. 

John couldn’t stand the blank anticipation, the forced casualness, the pretending that everything was normal. Moriarty would come back, and John wanted to know what they were dealing with. 

“What’s he going to do, Sherlock?” his voice cracked. 

Sherlock’s mouth shut and he refused to meet John’s eyes. 

“Please, Sherlock,” John sounded more himself now. “Just… explain.”

“Explain what?” Sherlock snapped.

“Everything?” 

The two sat next to each other against the wall, facing the dreadful and wonderful doorway. The only escape. The walkway of the devil. 

“Everything,” Sherlock sighed, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. “We came here to find evidence, learn more about Moriarty, his network, his past… He’s kidnapped us now, obviously. If… If what he’s said about Mycroft is true, we’ve no way of escape…” His voice was quiet and his breathing heavy and deep. 

“We’ll find a way out. Of course we will. Somehow. We can make a plan, right?”

Sherlock only nodded, eyes still closed. He looked tired, but Sherlock didn’t get tired. Just monstrously moody. Another silence closed in around them, and this time it was John to shatter the stillness. 

“Sherlock…” he started. “You never told me,” he cleared his throat. “What Moriarty’s going to do.”

“I knew you’d want to know.”

John let a moment pass. “Do I get an answer?”

Sherlock exhaled a laboured breath. “Don’t you know the answer? Do you really want me to tell you?”

“Yeah, of course I want to know what a bloody psychopath’s planning to do to us.”

Sherlock seemed to weigh the pros and cons of each option, before stating bluntly, “Torture us.”

John leaned into the wall. “Okay.” He wasn’t surprised. This is exactly what he knew Sherlock would tell him, but hearing it aloud somehow made it so much worse. 

“No, I take that back. He’ll torture me. Not you. So you really don’t need to be worrying.”

A harsh laugh made its way past John’s lips. “What the hell do you mean ‘you needn’t worry’?!”

Sherlock was still calm and unfazed, replying with the obvious. How tedious. “I mean, Moriarty has… focussed on me. He’s been pursuing me, not you. The levels of harm brought to you will be sufficiently more tolerable, and the army background helps.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” John said, mouth hanging open. “Christ, Sherlock.” He rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, before looking back up at Sherlock’s blank face and twisted eyebrows: utter confusion. John’s eyes widened yet again. His voice softened. “You really don’t get it, do you?” Disbelief. “Sherlock, what if… what if it were me Moriarty happened to be focussed on? Could you just sit here and watch him hurt me?”

Sherlock rolled his silver eyes in the dim light. “Of course not, I’d do anything I could to stop him, but it’s different.”

“How, Sherlock? How is it so different?” John’s voice raised. 

“It just is, okay?! I look at you differently than you see me. I’m responsible for all of this, John.” His eyes bored into John’s. “It’s my fault. Every single second of this. You should hate me right now. For being reckless, for be so sure of myself—falsely—for my ignorance getting us into this fucking mess.”

“So he’ll torture you…”

“Yes, John! Do keep up.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“There’s no point in fighting back. All we can do is wait for… wait for someone. Mycroft, maybe. Or Lestrade.”

John bit his cheek. “But Moriarty said that they wouldn’t…”

“I know.”

John shifted his position uneasily. “So—“

“So we’ll be here for a while, yes,” Sherlock concluded. His eyes were trained on John’s expression. Blue-grey, pale, and cold. “You’re worried.”

“And I suppose you aren’t?”

“No.”

John paused. “Of course you aren’t. Because you’re a bloody sociopath. What’s torture to a body that’s no more than transport, right?” John was loud again, ignoring the throbbing in his head, overreacting at nothing in particular: the stress, the panic, fear all churning and cascading over one another in his mind. Brimming with emotion when he thought Sherlock was completely void of it. It was a sort of envy, almost. Misplaced jealousy. 

The silence was strong enough to suffocate. 

“I’m going to try and sleep,” John muttered. Sherlock was still as a statue. Pale like marble, save the dried blood and nasty bruise adorning his face, and utterly still. 

Probably zoned out, John thought. Completely oblivious to his surroundings, to John. John leaned against the wall, cold concrete seeping through the thin material of his shirt. As hard as he tried, sleep was elusive. Some nights he’d be thankful for the escape from his nightmares, but right now he felt as if he was living one. Vulnerable to the world’s most dangerous psychopath was worse than remembrances of the war in Afghanistan, he decided. 

“You’re wrong.” Sherlock’s soft baritone echoed through the cold room, surrounding John. 

“Sorry, what, Sherlock? I’m trying to sleep.” John tilted his head to face the man next to him. Sherlock was unmoved to the very last muscle. Even his eyes were still closed. 

“You’re stupidly, wholly wrong.”

“Wrong about what, Sherlock?” John snapped.

“You believe me to be unable of feeling the same emotions as you do.” His voice was strong. “I’ve diagnosed myself with sociopathy, everyone I know does the same, and you can’t help but agree.” John opened his mouth to deny it, but Sherlock plowed on. “I know you won’t admit to it. You're a human of empathy and morals and right from wrong. I’m so completely opposite you, John Watson, and it’s a tragedy. My mind never stops.

“I’d explain it, if I could, but everything is just… there. Screaming and rearranging and demanding and it doesn’t stop. And emotions, they just make everything so much more complicated. I can’t categorize them or file them into the recesses of my mind to be acquired again when I need them. They flood everything. Drive me crazy. It’s not that I don’t feel, I just try not to.”

John nodded slowly. “Alright, Sherlock. Okay.” His tone was understanding in only a way John could manage. 

“You said I wasn’t worried or scared. You were wrong. You told me I didn’t care about the torture. I agree my body is just transport. I’ve said it so many times, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel the pain.”

John shifted closer to Sherlock, so that their shoulders were very nearly touching. Sherlock’s shoulders trembled, just in the slightest, and John wanted nothing more than to reach his hands out and steady them. 

“He’s going to do things to my mind, too. Play games until I deteriorate into insanity. It’s selfish of me, to be glad that I’m not alone here. Disgustingly selfish, because now you’re in danger, John, and I never meant for any of this to happen.” Sherlock said, shivering. 

“Are you cold?” John asked.

“No.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“Probably.”

John pursed his lips, before unbuttoning his red shirt and slipping it from sturdy shoulders. “Here, take this.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered open. “No, John. It’s an ignorant idea. Now you’ll just be colder.” 

“Well you know what, Sherlock? I think I can live with that. If what you said is true, if Moriarty’s really going to be… torturing you, then you’ll need to keep your strength up. If that means sleeping better since you’ve an extra shirt so be it.”

Sherlock opened his lips as if to protest, but John set his jaw. So Sherlock slid the shirt onto his arms, wincing when he twisted his torso. 

The man laid down on the ground and closed his eyes. An awkward urge overtook him, and John scooted closer, lifting Sherlock’s head to rest it on his lap. Surely his denim-clad thighs were more comfortable than cold, hard cement? 

Sherlock sighed. “John?” he whispered.

“Yeah, Sherlock?” 

“I’m glad I’m not alone.”

John trailed his fingertips across Sherlock’s forehead, brushing the curls back from pale skin. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” 

“Goodnight,” he breathed.


End file.
